Dead Hounds & Lost Wolves
by BlueRiesling
Summary: In preparation for her upcoming marriage, a bastard girl travels to the Quiet Isle and discovers the fate of an old friend.
1. Chapter 1

"Take off your underclothes and lie down on the bed," the septa commanded her, and Alayne blushed at the intrusiveness of it all. Lord Petyr had warned her about all of this; what the septa would do, what was expected of her and why it was all so very important, but the immodesty of it all made Alayne a bit sick in her stomach. Ever obedient, she silently did as she was told, not daring to look at the septa, who regarded her impassively. As the septa reached for her, lifting her skirts and spreading her legs, exposing her most private areas to the cold air and the septa's appraisal, Alayne felt herself cringe but fought the urge to recoil. She held her eyes shut tightly and tried to think of different things, wishing she was back home again...

Of course it was never easy to wish for home? Where was home? Did she truly miss the Vale and wish to return to her castle in the sky and it's invalid lordling? Or did she dare think of Sansa's burned Winterfell and all its ghosts? No-Alayne could not think of Sansa and Winterfell at a time like this, it felt so wrong. It _all_ felt wrong.

When Lord Petyr had first told her about his plans for her new marriage, she allowed herself to hope, believe even, that Harrold Hardyng would be the true knight she had waited for. He would love her, and protect her, dote on her and bring back Sansa and Winterfell. In return she would be as dutiful and gracious a ladywife had ever been, filling his house with strong sons to rule over Winterfell and the Vale in their stead.

She should have known better than to hope for such songs of course, and her stomach turned in knots as she remembered how Lord Petyr and Ser Harrold had wrangled the terms of their marriage agreement, compromising and bidding as though she were no more than a prized steed.

"Do not let yourself be offended, sweetling," Petyr had warned her, "he does not know who you truly are, and men are much less chivalrous to daughters born on the wrong side of the sheets. Even beautiful bastards are still bastards."

Lord Petyr had gone to great lengths to make sure her future husband desired her, despite her baseborn status. A new gown had been ordered, nicer than any Alayne had owned, it reminded her of something Sansa would have worn, with the exception of the low neckline and too-tight bodice that Lord Petyr had insisted upon. It caused her ever expanding teats to spill over the top of the gown, causing Alayne to blush feverishly at every hungry stare from men, she was aware of her every movement as she had to be constantly careful not to bend or twist the wrong way and spill out of the top of her gown. Lord Petyr had been quite pleased with the result, even going so far as to tell the seamstress to make other gowns in different shades of the same fashion. He told Alayne that he wanted his only daughter to have nice things, but Alayne felt the bawdy gowns for more for his amusement than her own.

The gown had pleased Harry the Heir, and he so scarcely tore his gaze from her chest that Alayne was not certain he even recalled what her face looked like. As he and Lord Petyr spoke, Alayne studied her future husband. Any woman could see that he was handsome, in a wind-swept way, with a healthy flush in his cheeks and hair the color of sand. He carried himself gallantly, with a young knight's flair, and was so witty and quick he kept up with Lord Petyr easily.

Alayne could not let herself be wooed by his smile, for just as soon as she convinced herself how much Sansa would love her new husband, Ser Harrold had taken Alayne's hand into his own and kissed it softly before turning to Lord Petyr: "Your daughter is very beautiful, my Lord, and you have made me very hopeful about the outcome of this arrangement..." he winked at her, and Alayne was glad to know she had done well and Ser Harrold would agree to the betrothal, "...However," Harrold continued, "I am a business man. You bring me a horse and promise me that it will carry me far, that it is strong and loyal and will not disappoint me, but you and I are both well aware of what words from stable boys are worth. I do not buy horses without first taking them for a ride to, uh, test the saddle if you will, my Lord." Ser Harrold turned to her with a devious glint in his eye, and her entirety blushed when she caught his meaning. She waited for Lord Petyr to punish him for his insolence, to call in Ser Lothor Brune to escort him out of the Vale and into a sky cell for implying that he should be allowed to...to..._ride_ her...Sansa was infuriated, indignant even...but Sansa was not there, it was Alayne's honor they were bargaining over, a bastard's honor.

Lord Petyr was not phased by the innuendo, "I understand your hesitance, Ser, as many would say I am selling my horse for much more than it is worth, but I would not impose such a high price if there was not a _claim_ to back it up." He emphasized the word claim, knowing Ser Harrold would catch his meaning as well. "As for your request to 'test the saddle,' well, I cannot allow that, as the saddle has never been ridden in, and I would not allow it to be broken in by someone who does not intend to purchase it."

Lord Petyr waited for Ser Harrold to absorb his meaning; to understand that baseborn Lady Alayne had brought her maidenhead to the bargaining table, but Ser Harrold looked instead to the heaving teats pressing to escape the top of her dress, and then turned to Lord Petyr with narrowed eyes that seemed to imply he believed he had outsmarted Littlefinger,

"If she is still a maiden then she need not prove herself to me until after the wedding, but she will need to prove her worth to a septa instead"

"And if she proves herself to be as promised?"

"Then I accept your betrothal, Lord Baelish, if everything is as you _claim_ it to be." Ser Harrold emphasized the word claim as well, so Lord Petyr understood exactly what he expected to get out of this marriage: a beautiful maiden with an even more beautiful claim.

And with that, Alayne found herself leaving home again, with Lord Petyr Baelish and Ser Harrold Hardyng in tow, following Mya Stone down the mountains and through the Eyrie to the nearest stronghold of the Seven, the Quiet Isle, seeking out a septa to declare Alayne Stone a maiden, and a septon to return to the Vale with them to marry Lady Sansa Stark to Ser Harrold Hardyng.

Alayne's stomach turned when the septa touched her, probing a place that even she didn't dare to explore more than necessary. Her eyes stung with the hint of tears, but she ground her teeth together and didn't dare look like a silly little girl in front of the septa. If she couldn't bear to be touched innocently by a septa, how did she intend to bear it when Ser Harrold reached for her on their wedding night? Alayne tried not to let her thoughts stray to Sansa's first wedding night, with the grotesque dwarf and the things he had wanted to do. Instead she thought of the beautiful maiden's cloak Lord Petyr had promised her: a snow white cloak emblazened with the fiercest direwolf the seamstress could design, and her hair would be rinsed clean of the awful dye and it would shine like her mother's against the Tully blue gown she would wear in her mother's honor...

And then it was finished.

"You are as you say you are," the septa said impassively, pulling Alayne's skirts back down in place, "I will let Lord Baelish and the Elder Brother know." She told Alayne to dress, and with that she was gone. Alayne told herself she should be relieved, and excited about her upcoming marriage, but she could not bring herself to feel anything. _Perhaps it is for the better_, she thought as she pulled her small clothes on and decided it was best to wait to have hope for anything more.


	2. Chapter 2

The great hall was quiet except for the sounds of the clinking of silverware, and Alayne and her party listened as the Elder Brother told them of the sacking of the Saltpans by outlaws, of the few who had survived and come to the Quiet Isle seeking refuge. Alayne listened in horror as the Elder Brother told of the fates that befell those who lived there, and she told a silent prayer to the Seven for peace for their souls.

"Have they caught the men responsible?" Mya asked the Elder Brother. He simply shook his head and seemed about to speak when Ser Harrold interrupted,

"I heard it was all led by that Lannister dog, the ugly one with the burned face."

Alayne felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach,

"The Hound would never do such a thing" she heard herself protest quietly, as every member of her party turned to stare at her quizzically.

"What does Lady _Stone_ know of a Lannister dog and what he is or isn't capable of?" Ser Harrold laughed, disregarding his betrothed's opinions, but it was the Elder Brother who came to the Hound's defense instead of Alayne.

"Lady _Alayne_ is right," the Elder Brother explained, "it was not the Hound."

"And how can you be certain?" Ser Harrold, never being one to pass up an argument, "I heard there was many a tale from those who remember that distinct helm of his-the disgusting dog one-from those who lived to tell about it."

"I am certain," the Elder Brother stated with a certain peace, "the Hound is long dead, his helm and shield were taken from his grave by the outlaws who sacked the Saltpans."

Alayne felt her fork fall from her hand and clatter loudly to the ground.

_Dead? The Hound was dead?_ She had so many questions, but she knew she had to silence them-it would not be appropriate for a baseborn girl from the Free Cities to have so many questions about a dead Lannister swordsman.

Luckily, it seemed no one else in her party noticed her clumsiness, save the Elder Brother who regarded her strangely. He studied her face too intently it seemed, and she felt herself go white, feeling that he had somehow discovered her secret. She had to escape his gaze, so she turned to Lord Petyr, "Pray forgive me, Father, but all this talk of the devastation of the Saltpans has left me feeling a bit ill. Please bid me to retire for the evening?" Her father seemed to understand her discomfort.

"I will escort you back to your room," he insisted, but the Elder Brother intervened,

"No. Lord Baelish you have scarcely had a chance to eat, and I would be sorry host if I did not permit you to finish your meal. Allow me to escort the lady back to her quarters." Petyr made a move to interject, but the Elder Brother had already risen and held his arm out to Alayne. She took it and followed him silently, nodding a goodnight to her companions with a thin smile, and then left the great hall into the damp air of the isle.

She and the Elder Brother walked in silence for awhile before he broke the silence, "I am sorry if my talk of the Hound upset you." he told her.

"Do not be sorry, Ser, I just have a lady's soft stomach for such tales and a sad heart for those who were lost," she replied, hoping her answer would deter any suspicion, but the Elder Brother did not seem to be interested in questioning anymore.

"I buried the Hound myself, in a quiet place by the river. I marked his grave with his dog helm and shield, and though I fear those have long been taken, the stone markers I placed there still remain."

They continued on in silence before Alayne couldn't help herself, she had to know...

"How did he die?" she whispered, hoping the Elder Brother would not catch the sadness that was threatening to break out of her and give her away.

"I found him along the Trident, greatly wounded and feverish from infection. We brought him back here and he was quite delirious. Eventually the Hound passed on and we buried him by the river."

Alayne felt her legs begin to turn to jelly and she suddenly forgot where and who she was as tears began to fall down her cheeks. The Elder Brother paused, then turned to face her, "You knew the man?" he said, and Sansa nodded,

"He was...a friend" she heard Sansa choke, but she didn't understand what she was saying,_ the Hound a friend_? She hadn't ever considered him as such, and she had never thought that his death would weigh so heavily on her now that she had resigned herself from feeling anything anymore.

"I never thought I would hear someone call Sandor Clegane friend," the Elder Brother said softly, "much less a beautiful maiden with auburn hair." Alayne felt the air go out of her a bit before protesting,

"I have _brown_ hair, my lord, like my father's." She realized it was a silly thing to argue about with the Elder Brother who merely replied,

"That you do, milady. I must be mistaken by the evening light."

They walked the rest of the way in silence, though Alayne feared the Elder Brother could hear the sound of her heart beating as she was suddenly so nervous she thought it would break out of her chest. When they reached her door, she wanted to dash inside and draw the latch behind her and remain there until they left the Isle. She prayed that would be soon and she would be far away from the curious looks he was giving her.

"Tomorrow I will send a silent brother to escort you to the grave of the Hound. I know it would mean a lot to him to have a _friend_ say a prayer on his behalf." Alayne meant to protest when she realized that what the Elder Brother had said was not a request, so she merely nodded and said a quiet farewell before retiring to her room with her many thoughts.


	3. Chapter 3

When his brother came to bid him to the Elder Brother's chambers, he knew what, and who, it was about. He had expected this summons since he had seen the girl and her party arrive on the Isle-though he was careful to avoid them since then. He followed his brother in silence to the driftwood door that designated the entrance to the Elder Brother's chambers. He did not knock, nor wait to be invited inside, and instead dismissed the messenger with a nod and entered.

The Elder Brother sat by the fire, with his arms crossed his chest and stared at the large man accusingly.

"You know why you're here, don't you Brother?" he said. The large man nodded. "The girl is not who she claims to be, that is clear to me," the Elder Brother continued, "But I am to return to the Vale with her party to oversee her marriage to Ser Hardyng." The large man nodded again, hoping his cowl hid whatever emotions would give him away. "I cannot, in good faith, marry an imposter to an heir. It would be an affront to the holy union of marriage." he explained. The large brother remained silent and still as ever, which seemed to annoy the Elder Brother. "If you know something...You should not permit me to do this..." The large man merely shrugged. "I give you permission to speak, Brother, I beg you to break your silence on this matter, Ser," he implored. The large brother thought for a moment, he had not spoken for a very long time. He wasn't even sure he wanted to anymore.

Finally he rasped out,

"I'm not your bloody Ser" and he rose to leave the room when the Elder Brother said quietly,

"She cried over his death, Brother." To which the large brother paused, spat on the floor, and said sternly,

"She shouldn't." And he left the Elder Brother's chambers.


	4. Chapter 4

The Elder Brother had insisted he escort her to the Hound's grave, and without being permitted proper use of his voice, he had little capability to protest or to tell the Elder Brother to bugger off like he would like. And so it was, that after morning prayers, the Elder Brother led him to the girl's door and knocked loudly. He heard a scuffle from behind the door, and soon the girl's head peered around to look at them, her blue eyes trimmed in red as though she had been crying.

She gave the Elder Brother a worried glance, but then remembered her courtesies as she always had, "Forgive me, brothers, I was not expecting you this early. I pray permit me a moment to get dressed." And with that she disappeared behind the door again and the large brother felt a strange feeling of loss as soon as she was gone from view. He swore at himself silently and then glared at the Elder Brother, hating him for putting both of them through this farce of an outing.

When she returned, dressed and readied and carrying an odd white bundle, the Elder Brother made introductions, "This silent brother is one of my personal guards, he doesn't speak, but I have found his silence makes him the ideal companion," he said with a laugh. The large man scowled at him, though he knew his cowl hid the fierce look from his superior. The Elder Brother continued, "he will escort you to the river, as I'm sure he has his own prayers to say on behalf of the Hound."

The girl turned to him with wide eyes, "You knew the Hound?" but he merely peered down at her in silence. He thanked the Seven for the blessing of silence, because it saved him from having to think of what to say to her if he was to have to explain himself, to apologize even. He offered her his arm and she took it gently, and he couldn't help but think of how this was so very different from the many other times he had escorted her, though then it was to much more disagreeable destinations.

"I shall leave you to your trek now," The Elder Brother announced, and he as though he could sense the girl's discomfort at being left alone with the large silent brother, "He will take good care of you. He is my most fiercely loyal brother." The large man tried to silence his scoff as the Elder Brother turned and disappeared.

They walked in silence to the stables, and the large man cursed his bad leg as the terrain worsened as they neared the river, but he was content enough to walk beside her and watch her eyes and wonder just what she was thinking that he was mostly distracted from the dull pain.

* * *

><p>Sansa left Alayne behind for the morning, for <em>him<em>. Alayne would not be able to pray for his soul the way Sansa would, to feel the loss that Sansa would. Sansa knew she needed to feel _something_, even if it was grief, and even if it was silly and confusing and she would hide it away as soon as she could.

She was wary of the silent brother, he was tall and broad in a way that one would not expect of a demure silent brother, but she followed him all the same. He walked with a distinct limp that eased her fear, as she was certain she could outrun him if she felt threatened and needed to escape. His face was shielded by his cowl-a mark of a novice of the Quiet Isle, but his silence paired with his anonymity made her feel safe. She could not feel the accusations and judgement in his gaze if she could not see him.

When they arrived at the spot by the riverside, he held her arm to keep her steady on the muddy terrain and escorted her to a pile of seven smooth white stones arranged in a cross, marking the spot where the Hound was buried.

She stared at it a long time in silence, her mind blank and her heart trying to understand what it all meant, even though she had known what it'd meant since the night before...that the Hound was dead.

He was dead and buried and _gone_.

He was not coming back for her.

She was going to be given to Harrold Hardyng, and she was going to have to remember her courtesies and who she was and bear his children and raise them alongside his bastards in the Vale and she would give him her maidenhead and it would hurt terribly and she would hope he liked it enough to win back Winterfell for her and if he didn't it was lost forever.

No one was coming for her.

No one was going to rescue her.

Sandor Clegane was dead. And _gone_. And buried alone by the riverside.

Sansa felt her knees grow weak and her stomach grow angry and she ran to the treeline and vomited.

* * *

><p>He watched her stare at the stones for a long time in silence, her brow furrowed only slightly and he had studied her face enough in his life that he could tell she was thinking hard about something, but he had no idea what it could be. Was she angry? Sad? Insane even? And then suddenly she was still no longer, and she had stepped quickly to the side before collapsing to her knees and vomiting. He wanted to reach for her, cradle her in his lap and hold her until the shaking stopped, but he couldn't bring himself to move. Wouldn't bring himself to move. The Hound was <strong>dead<strong>. He would **stay dead**.

He reached for the package she had dropped in her haste, busying himself with it so he did not have to watch her get sick over the Hound. He untangled the bundle and brushed it off-it was a cloak. He could tell it was once white but had yellowed with age. Then it hit him-_a white cloak. _The **_Hound's_** white cloak_._ She had kept it.

His mind reeled as he tried to understand what it all meant, but nothing made sense to him. He looked from the cloak to the girl huddle retching in the bushes and was certain that she was madder than he had ever realized. That perhaps these last few years she had wrapped herself up so deep in her fantasies that she didn't even realize what was real anymore, what had been real.


	5. Chapter 5

"Forgive me, brother," she sighed, her face flushed with embarrassment, "I seem to have surprised myself with grief." She rose to her feet and shook the sand off her skirts. She crossed to him and took the cloak from his hands, but made no effort to explain its meaning to the silent brother. She had regained herself and her face was as stoic and unreadable as it had been before, "Please allow me to say my prayers for our departed friend, and then we can return." And with that she knelt at the foot of the grave and bowed her head in silent prayer, her hands clenching the fabric of the cloak as if she hoped to wring water out of it.

He studied her more openly then, as her closed eyes and bowed head emboldened him. She had grown taller than he remembered, and he felt ashamed as he noticed how her teats and grown in, her figure filled out as that of a woman flowered. He'd known she was married to the Imp, but the septa and Elder Brother had declared her maidenhead intact-a fact he would not have believed if he had not heard it from them himself. Her hair was no longer the auburn her remembered, but a dirty brown color similar to Littlefingers. Her eyes had retained the Tully blue however, but it seemed dulled somehow. Her face seemed more gaunt, and she was thinner than he recalled, but how much of that was due to growth he could not decide. Even gaunt and wrecked with sadness, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Her skin was the clearest porcelain he had ever seen, and he felt himself staring at it longingly, wanting to know it's softness, feel it against his own. He was lost is his own thoughts when he felt a hardness forming in his pants, and he suddenly felt stupid and guilty and was reminded once again that the Hound was dead. That was why they were here. He was dead.

The wind picked up and caught the hair of the kneeling girl, pulling it behind her shoulders, exposing her long neck. He almost lost himself in that neck again but then he saw it, there on the back of her neck: three large black bruises patterned unmistakably- a hand print. Someone had grabbed her throat and held her there tight enough to leave bruises. He'd seen bruises like this before on his sister.

The thought of his long lost sister-the first girl he'd failed to protect-woke something buried deep inside of him, a low growl inside his throat and a wave of memories washed over him: Gregor holding his face in the fire, the sulfuric stench of burning hair, the bruises around his little sister's throat that she'd tried to hide from him, her curtsies and forced smiles and how she told him she was sure his face would heal someday, her mangled body after she had fallen mysteriously from her tower, and then it was his little bird stripped to the waist and beaten as he watched, her terrified face glowing green under the light of the wildfire, a knife-his knife-to her throat. All the darkness and failures of his past washed over him and he felt himself drowning in it until he heard a sadly familiar sound pull him back to the present-the soft cries of a little bird.

He had never been phased by the cries of women, save this particular girl, whose tears somehow made him feel the way no sword ever had. He wanted to reach out for her, to pull her to her feet and shake her and remind her of the beast she was crying over. He wanted to demand her to tell him just who hurt her, so he knew who to blame for her current spiral into madness.

He imagined the Imp kissing her, his tiny hands roaming across her body, touching her the same way he did his pox-ridden whores. He thought of Littlefinger and his queer smirk, his mad lust for power must've been the only thing keeping him from taking the bird's maidenhead when the Imp failed-but that didn't mean he hadn't used the girl for other sports. Then there was the crass Harrold, with his bastards and stupid knighthood, treating her like another one of his prey. He imagined all of them with their hands around her throat, tearing the breathe away. He needed to know who hurt her, but at the same time he knew who was really responsible—fhimsel.

He had failed her. He should have dragged her kicking and screaming from King's Landing. The Hound was a violent man, drunk and ugly-but all of that she knew. And yet she had chosen her current company-a mess of liars and whores the lot of them. There was no way he'd let them take her from him again. Something deep inside him snapped._ Seven fucking hells._

Suddenly the Hound wasn't dead after all.


	6. Chapter 6

Large, rough hands pulled her from her prayers. The cloak fell from her hands as she reached up to deflect the strange brother's touch. The sudden movement had caused his cowl to fall, and for the first time Sansa was able to look him in the eyes. Still shielded by a curtain of tangled black hair she could barely make out how grey they were, grey and angry...and familiar somehow. He pulled her to her feet and spun her to face him, both his hands on her shoulders. His grey eyes peered over his cowl and into hers, studying her.

He held her there for a moment before rasping out, "Why are you always so..._stupid_, little bird?" his voice was hoarse and rough from disuse and his sudden breech of silence caught her off guard so it took her a moment for the weight of his words to hit her. _He called me little bird_...

Her courtesies forgotten, she tore the cowl from his face, revealing the familiar scars she knew were underneath. The face that stared back at her was a ghost, somber and slightly broken, but his jaw was set in the same determined way she had come to expect from such an indignant man. Her brief joy and relief was soon overwhelmed with embarrassment and anger as she realized the joke he had just played on her. W_atching me cry and pray and retch over his death, all the while he was watching and laughing at my silliness from behind his brother's hood_. Sansa felt herself slap him, the impact made her whole body shake, but it scarcely elicited a flinch from the large man.

"How dare y-" she started, but her words were cut off by his mouth suddenly over hers and his hands around her waist pulling her into him and crushing the air from her lungs. It was unlike any kiss she had ever received before-rough and hard and violent and...passionate. He wound one large hand into her hair, cradling her head and deepening the kiss. She felt herself go limp against him and opened her mouth a tiny bit to let him in further. He broke the kiss after a moment, but kept his body flush against hers and his head against her forehead.

"You should have come with me, little bird," he breathed.

The break in the kiss gave Sansa a moment to regain herself, this was all too much for her-kissing ghosts at gravesites, enjoying the touch of another man while she was betrothed to another, the warmth in her maiden's parts pressed into him—it was all too strange, too sinful, too _honest_...

Suddenly Alayne was back, and she was pushing the large man away angrily,

"I'm not your little bird anymore, _Hound_." She reached up to strike him again.

"And I'm not your dog, _girl_, so don't be hitting me like one," he rasped, taking hold of her wrist, never removing his other hand from her waist. They remind in the pose for some time, like stubborn dancers daring the other one to tear their eyes and hands off each other, when the sound of twigs breaking under feet broke them from their stand-off.

* * *

><p>"May I remind you, Brother, that you have taken an oath of silence." The Elder Brother cooed as he stepped out from beyond the treeline, and Sandor cursed his luck as the girl wriggled free of him, a blush creeping across her face.<p>

"I've sworn no oaths, Brother," he growled, never tearing his eyes off the shaken girl, noting that she didn't dare meet either of their eyes.

"No, perhaps not, but your standing as a brother here is contingent upon you keeping our rules and vows, and I need you to remain in my good faith, brother." The Elder Brother took a step towards Sandor, his jaw set in determination but there was still kindness behind the anger in his eyes. "The fate of the lady hangs upon your adherence, _brother_—or would you prefer I resumed calling you Hound?"

Sandor regarded the Elder Brother, debating whether or not the man was threatening him or offering to help him-or even both. Sansa's eyes remained fixed on the ground, and Sandor suddenly realized he still had a hold on her wrist. He released her then, and instantly regretted his indiscretions when he saw the red mark his strength had left on her. He looked again to the Elder Brother,

"I'm taking the girl away from here." he stated sternly, staring the brother down and daring his defiance. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sansa jump, or flinch or recoil-he could not read this new strange little bird.

To his surprise, the Elder Brother smiled at him warmly,

"Yes, yes you are, brother...but I did not give you permission to speak." He picked up the rumpled wrappings from the ground and handed them to Sandor, who took them silently and began to replace his cowl, eyeing the Elder Brother suspiciously.

"Lady Sansa," the Elder Brother turned to the frightened girl, whose face only paled at the mention of her name, her _actual_ name, "I'm sure you have many questions, and I will do my best to answer them all soon, but let me assure you, you are safe now. We will protect you, and your secrets...Won't we Brother Clegane?" Sandor flinched at the use of his surname and Sansa turned to the him warily, he moved to speak but thought better of it and nodded silently. "Good." the Elder Brother clapped his hands together victoriously, "My silent brother will escort you back to your quarters now. And I'm _sure _he will remember his brotherly courtesies this time." The Elder Brother gave Sandor a knowing look.

_So that's how it's to be then_? Sandor thought, _I'm to escort the little bird around the isle like a good dog and wait for this feeble man to give me instructions_? He didn't like the idea of being anyone's dog again, but something in him knew that he would need to old man's help to get the girl away safely. It had been a long time since he had been allowed to carry a sword, as the brother's believed he was armed well enough with a spade and his prayers. _I could kill with a fucking spade if I needed to, _he decided, and imagined splitting cracks in the heads of all of those who designed to have their way with his little bird.


	7. Chapter 7

The walk back to the little bird's quarters were silent, and he knew he had the Elder Brother and his "gift" of silence to thank for that. She didn't hold his arm for support this time, and he blamed himself and his awful kissing for her distance-surely she hated him, especially now that she had no cause to pity him as a tragic soul. He had thought for a moment when his mouth was on hers that she was returning his affections, but he was certain he was just over thinking the moment and in true she was probably surrendering to him out of pure shock and terror.

She hadn't tried to question him further, or even speak to him at all for that matter. He wasn't sure if he should be glad, but at the very least she hadn't protested his declaration of his intent to take her away. He wasn't sure he would listen this time if she had, _the little bird has no idea what's best for her_, he reasoned, though he wasn't sure he himself knew what was good for her either.

When they arrived at her door, he suddenly felt awkward around her, unsure of what to do, and thankful for not having to come up with words to say to her. She turned to face him then, her face softened from the harshness he'd seen earlier when she had tried to strike him. _The little bird has found her courtesies_, he thought with a hidden smirk. He nodded to her and began to retreat when she stopped him. With one tiny hand on his large shoulder, she stood on the tips of her toes and leaned in to whisper in his good ear, "I'm glad you are still with me, _Brother_." She was close enough he could smell her, feel the heat of her breath, and he felt himself harden again as images of their kiss flashed in his head.

He wanted to kiss her again, he wasn't even sure if he cared if she kissed him back. He had taken far worse things than kisses in his life, and the little bird had been subjected to far worse things-_but not from a man who looks like you, Dog_. But if he was going to give up his life here: his anonymity, his shelter from the winter, his silence, he'd better be getting something damn good in return, and he figured a few more kisses were a fair price for the little bird to pay for her safe passage.

He thought about taking another one from her then, as she stood on her threshold dangerously close to him. It would've been easy, so very easy, but he knew better than to be doing such things out in the open, lest his identity be revealed too soon. She squeezed his shoulder and leaned towards him briefly, before she seemingly changed her mind and disappeared into her chamber, the old wooden door clanging shut behind her, leaving him alone, aroused, and determined on her doorstep.

When he entered the Elder Brother's chambers that evening, the old man didn't even turn to the door as he came in, as if he had been expecting him. "I supposed you came to hear my plan, Brother," he said, without rising from his seat by the fire, "Pour us each a glass of wine, and perhaps it will loosen my tongue and your ears a bit." Sandor did as his was told, pouring himself a more generous portion than the Elder Brother, feeling that the day's events had earned it. He handed the man his wine and settled into the wicker chair across from him, his patience renewed by the presence of the Dornish red.

After a few sips, the Elder Brother seemed satisfied enough with his wine to speak, "Pretty girls dig graves, Sandor. As many as you, perhaps more." He took a longer drink, "I don't doubt that the Stark girl is digging yours, even now." The Elder Brother turned to face him then, and his wrinkled old eyes met Sandor's set grey ones. His glare told the older man all he needed to know apparently, "I suppose you don't care about that much anymore do you, Sandor?" He did not respond. Silently they toasted to his death.

"Now let me tell you about this plan of mine..."


	8. Chapter 8

It had been three days since she'd last seen the Hound. Three agonizing days of dying to ask him so very many questions, but also three days of feeling like the embarrassment would kill her if she ever saw him again. Had she really been so wanton as to let him kiss her like that? Even so brazen as to kiss him back? What would she do if he tried it again? She pushed the unladylike thoughts to the back of her mind, forcing Sansa back into the hidden place where Alayne kept her.

She was sitting with Mya Stone, watching Harrold spar with some of the brothers in the practice yard. Since the arming of the faith, many of the would be knights and squires found themselves retreating from the battlefield and into the militant faithful. Most of the ones who found their way to the Quiet Isle were either too old or too green to be of any real use in battle, but Harrold found their novice amusing, and one by one his opponents surrendered, and with a laugh and a flourish he would call to the on-lookers to find him a real challenger. By the time six of the faith's best soldiers had been defeated, challengers were much harder to come by and the crowd was growing weary of Harrold's taunts and mocking laugh.

"You have a very sorry army, Brother," Harrold called to the Elder Brother when he spotted them on the edge of the crowd. The Elder Brother smiled politely and did not give in to Harrold's teasing,

"We have no banners to call to our aid, nor taxes to pay for them, we must call to a higher power and are grateful for all they deem worthy of sending us, Ser"

"Aye, Brother, but if the Seven truly wanted to protect you, why not send you a few of their strongest and mightiest, instead of their leftovers and less," laughed Harrold.

If the blasphemy aggravated the Elder Brother, he did not let it show, and Alayne felt herself annoyed to have to call Ser Harrold betrothed._ Hopefully for not much longer_, she wished, her eyes scanning the field for her elusive would-be savior.

"Ser, I do believe if you look hard enough, you will find some of the best fighters in the realm here, but you will also find they are the most humble." The Elder Brother defended his flock.

"Humility is of little aid in a real battle," Harrold laughed, and then held his sword high above his head with a flourish, "I challenge you, Brother, and your men, bring me your strongest, mightiest fighter, and I will defeat him thusly, else he can take my sword for his own." His longsword flashed brilliantly in the sunlight, his gold hilt shimmering, the white and blue jewels inlaid in it catching the light. He made for a magnificent picture, and Alayne was sure in that moment he was the very picture of the knights from Sansa's silly songs.

"I am not a gambling man," the Elder Brother raised his hands in defeat, "but we are in desperate need of good steel here, I will not prohibit my men from taking you up on your wager."

The growing crowd cheered, and it seemed to swallow the Elder Brother as he retreated into it, disappearing amongst the bloodlust.

"Who shall be my knight then?" roared Harry, his chest puffed out that reminded Alayne a bit like the roosters they'd kept in the Vale. A young, gangly monk stepped forward from the crowd, his steps awkward but aided by the arrogance of youth, an older, rounder monk with the face of a bulldog pushed the young monk back,

"This is a seasoned man's fight," the old bulldog declared, rising to the challenge, but Harrold laughed,

"Where are your strongest and mightiest? Your gifts from the Seven?"

The crowd began to part, and Alayne watched as a large, familiar figure moved to the front. He put one large hand on the bulldog knight's soldier and stared down at him, shaking his head. The bulldog knight eyed him up and down, taking in his size and then stepped aside so the large silent brother could pass. It was then that Alayne realized that the Hound carried no sword, and for a brief moment she thought he intended to take on Harrold's longsword with just his fists, but once his intention was made clear, the young gangly knight offered his sword to the Hound, while the old bulldog knight handed the man his shield. Still the Hound wore no chainmail, no armor, and no snarling helm, and Alayne felt her heart fall through her chest in dread.

If Harrold was intimidated by the Hound's size he did not let on, nor did he seem to recognize the large man, as the Hound left his hood up and his wrappings on his face-a handicap Alayne prayed wouldn't prove to be fatal. _Perhaps if he knew he were about to fight Sandor Clegane he wouldn't be so arrogant_, she thought wryly.

The Hound strode to the center of the field to meet Harrold. They touched the tips of their swords together to signal the start of the match, and then with a whirl and the clanging of steel the match was underway. Sansa watched intensely, cheering on her Hound, while Alayne rooted for the downfall of the fool Ser Harrold.

Harrold swung at the Hound boldly, as his target was much larger and unprotected, but the Hound's reach was much longer and he easily struck down Harrold's blows. Harrold danced around him in circles, poking and stabbing at him with his steel, while the Hound barely moved at all, simply pivoting to keep face with his opponent and slashed down every blow that came near.

Soon, Harrold's movements became less fierce, less quick, and the sound of his ragged breath could be heard over the cheers and taunts of the crowd. _He has tired himself out_, she thought. The Hound saw it too, and with a few hard hits with the flat of his blade Harrold was on his knees. It was clear it was time for the man to admit defeat, but his arrogance would not allow it and after a moment Harrold leapt to his feet and rushed the Hound again. He was rewarded for his effort with a blow to the side of his head with the flat of the Hound's blade, knocking him off balance. As he fell, the Hound's longsword caught him on his upper arm, and a red river of blood began to seep across his sleeve.

The crowd cheered at the large brother's triumph, and Sansa leapt to her feet to applaud. Only when she saw Mya watching her out of the side of her eye did she remember who she was, and so Alayne was back, feigning disappointment and worry over the injury of her betrothed.

She rushed past the on-lookers onto the practice field and knelt at his side, avoiding the Hound's gaze. She took the hand of Harrold's uninjured arm, while Mya got to the task of binding his wound.

"Are you hurt, my love?" she whispered, unsure which of the two fighters she was addressing. She stole a glance up at the Hound, but he was not paying her any attention.

He had picked up Harrold's ornate sword from the ground and awarded it to the gangly youth who had loaned him his, he then returned the shield to the old bulldog knight and adjusted his hood. Only then did he turn back and look at Alayne, and there was a great deal of annoyance in his eyes, but Alayne could not be certain if it was directed at her or to her arrogant betrothed. _He must know this is a mummer's display_, Sansa fretted, _he must understand it is my duty_.

"He's unconcious, but unhurt," Mya explained, sensing her friend's worry. Alayne then remembered the bloodied Harrold and refocused herself,

"His arm...so much blood," she sighed, she never liked the look of blood.

"It's just a scratch, really," Mya soothed, "it's stopped bleeding now, but it's still quite the mess...Such a fool, wagering away his sword..." Mya's voice trailed off, and then suddenly her faced changed as though she was startled. "Forgive me, Milady, I did not mean offense to Ser Harrold..."

"Think nothing of it, Mya," Alayne sighed, stroking Harrold's hand, "It was an ungentlemanly gesture, and it seems he has paid for it now." Mya nodded, her relief evident, and stood to allow the monk's to tend to Harrold, she extended a hand to Alayne and together the girls watched them carry away her betrothed.

"We should find my Lord Father," Alayne longed to run from the field, but more to seek out the Hound and ensure his health, rather than search for Lord Baelish. Mya nodded in agreement, wiping the blood from her hands in the nearby grass.

"He'll not be pleased," Mya mumbled, as they set off to bear the news of the heir's foolishness to Lord Baelish.


	9. Chapter 9

After a few hours, Harrold had woken up, suffering no more than a headache and a bruised ego. Still, a maester tended to him at all hours, forcing the young man to stay abed. For this, Sandor was grateful, as it kept the young knight from seeking the rematch he had apparently been clamoring about since he regained consciousness.

Lord Baelish was very generous in his care of Ser Harrold, and paid the Elder brother well to make sure he was tended to day and night, all the while the little bird waited dutifully at his bedside. Despite their best efforts, however, it only took a few days before Ser Harrold's wound began to fester. Sandor would have cursed him for letting such an insignificant wound be his downfall, if he didn't suspect strongly that the Elder brother had aided the infection along in some way.

"We are men of the faith," the Elder brother had reminded him, "we are not murderers." Still, it was crucial to their plans that the heroic young knight be disposed of, and it wasn't long before his own arrogance got the better of him, and Sandor was able to disarm his nemesis—in more ways than one.

He had no need of a sword as bawdy as the one he had won from Ser Harrold, so instead he gave it to the young knight who had lent him his sword, keeping the young knight's more humble longsword instead. It had been a long time since he owned good steel, but a flashy hilt of jewels would only draw more attention to them from outlaws while on the road.

_On the road_...It seemed so strange, so unreal to think that after all this time of living as a silent recluse, he would be soon be trading in his monk's habit for chain mail and spiriting away his little bird to Winterfell...

"_We must first take care of the Lord Protector_," the Elder Brother's words came back to remind him, "_we can't have anyone coming after her until she's established in Winterfell_." The idea of spilling Littlefinger's blood pleased Sandor much more than was appropriate for a silent brother of the Quiet Isle.

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><p><strong>AN:** Thank you all for your wonderful comments and encouragement! I apologize for this being such a short chapter, but I must pause here while I find the perfect way to dispose of Littlefinger. Suggestions appreciated! :-)


	10. Chapter 10

Alayne had been keeping vigil at the bedside of her betrothed when he died. The wound on his arm was small, barely more than a scratch, but despite the Elder Brother's best efforts it had begun to fester and blacken and a fever overtook Ser Harrold. While Harrold, Alayne sat by the fire, working on her needlework, lost in her own thoughts. Periodically, the Elder Brother would check in, give Alayne a knowing look, and then pour another dose of Ser Harrold's medicine into his mouth.

She knew her duty was by her future husband's side, and somewhere in the back of Alayne's mind the words "Family, Duty, Honor" meant something to her. However, Alayne was not certain she would ever be able to regard Ser Harrold as family. Must of her time by his side, her mind was wrapped up in thoughts of another man-something Alayne was certain was not considered honourable. Alayne struggled to keep track of her thoughts as she fought with Sansa Stark to make sense of the events of the last few weeks. Perhaps the distraction of her own inner monologue was why she did not notice when Ser Harrold Hardyng had died.

In her short life, she had experienced a great deal of death, much of it violent and jarring, so she could not help but feel slightly disappointed when Ser Harrold had left the world without so much as a sound, at some point in the quiet evening he had merely ceased to live. When she realized his chest was no longer rising, she knew she should feel some grief or loss, but the only feeling she felt was dread at having to break the news to Lord Baelish.

She did not rush to Harrold's side and sob and pray to the gods when she realized he was gone, she merely regarded him from her chair by the fire and wondered how long it would be before the Elder Brother returned. When he finally did come to check on Ser Harrold, Alayne quietly informed the Elder Brother of Ser Harrold's passing, to which the man nodded, and solemnly pulled the blanket up to cover the young knight's face. As if sensing her anxiety, the Elder Brother said, "I'll break the news to Lord Baelish," to which she merely nodded. She waited with the body of her betrothed until Mya Stone arrived, having been sent for by the Elder Brother.

Alayne allowed her friend to lead her back to her quarters, despite Mya being obviously uncomfortable with such a delicate situation. When they had returned to her rooms, Mya broke the silence with a courteous, "I'm very sorry about your betrothed," not meeting Alayne's eyes and added, "I'm sure you loved him very much." Without warning, Alayne began to laugh at the girl's platitudes, much to Mya's shock. As unflappable as she was, it still took Mya a moment to regain her composure before pushing Alayne down onto the bed and stating, "You must be going mad with grief, girl" and ordered her to get some rest.

She was thankful for Mya's concern, who kept their companions from bothering her, insisting Alayne needed to be alone with her grief. With Mya keeping unwanted visitors at bay, Alayne was able to avoid Lord Baelish's wrath when he found out about the demise of Ser Harrold and, consequently, his plans. Mya told Alayne that Lord Baelish had gone almost mad for a few moments, tearing at his haid and accusing the Elder Brother of poisoning the young knight, before calming himself and remembering he was addressing a member of the Faith. Lord Baelish had then demanded to see his daughter, but was thwarted by Mya who insisted he allow her "time to mourn."

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><p>Three days went by while Alayne waited in her rooms, embroidering by the fire and studying a few texts of the Faith she had been given by the Elder Brother. Alayne was not sure what she was waiting for, but she knew she would rather loiter in her presumed grief than be spirited back to the Vale, without a betrothal to protect her from Lord Baelish's "littlefinger."<p>

On the third evening of her seclusion, Alayne was awoken by a sound outside her door. For a brief moment, she felt her heart grow tight as she thought it was the Hound come to take her away, before the feeling gave way to dread as she wondered if it was instead Lord Baelish, come to take her in a much different way.

"Who's there?" she called out, her fingers lingering on the doorbar. No response came and she pressed her ear gingerly to the door, listening for something to identify her guest, but no sounds came. _I must be hearing things_, she thought, returning to her bed. Before climbing under her covers, she heard the sound again, a scratching sound and what must've been a grunt from just outside her door. _The Hound_! She practically leapt in excitement as she through on her cloak over her night shift and darted for the door, and threw it open.

She was greeted not by the grey eyes and broad shoulders of Sandor Clegane, but the darkness of night air, smelling of rain that was both coming and going, and of the salt coming off the Bay. Confused, she forced her eyes to adjust to the darkness, and tried to make out shapes in the night, but was only able to identify the trees and nearby buildings.

Wanting a better look, Alayne reached for a nearby candle to step out into the darkness, only to trip on a large, soft body at her feet. Startled, she leapt backwards, as the creature let out an annoyed grunt and turned to stare at her, demanding to know why she had woken it up. "Lady?" Sansa wondered, and reached out to grab a handful of the animal's soft fur, when it cocked it's head at her curiously and she was certain it was no direwolf on her doorstep, but one of the Isle's many stray dogs looking for a warm place to sleep.

She could see the animal's golden fur was damp from the rain and the spots of white around it's eyes and muzzle told her the dog was quite old. Alayne knelt down beside the dog, who made no move except a subtle wag of it's tail and what might've been faint shivering. "You must be freezing," she mewed, as she beckoned for the dog to come into her rooms. The mutt regarded her skeptically, surely used to a life outside in the rain, but the sight of a fire in the hearth must've tempted it greatly, as it soon padded past Alayne and curled up on the rug by the fireplace, sighing contentedly. The dog gave her one last puzzled look, before laying it's head down and covering it's nose with it's tail for more warmth and going to sleep as it this were the dog's quarter's and not Alayne's. Taking comfort in the company of her new found friend, Alayne shrugged off her cloak and climbed into bed, and was soon fast asleep as well.

She awoke to light filtering in through the worn curtains and the feeling of something heavy laying over her feet. Blinking her eyes awake, she saw the golden-furred old dog stretched out across the end of her bed, looking quite snug and not at all concerned about the mudstains it had left on her coverlet. Alayne sighed and tried not to move and disturb the dog, and for a moment closed her eyes and pretended she was Sansa again, with Lady keeping her feet warm from the harsh Northern colds.

She was pulled out of her fantasy by a knock on her door. "It's open," she called out groggily. A damp breeze swept through the room as the Elder Brother entered, carrying a tray of food, followed close behind by a sharp eyed Petyr Baelish.

"It's worse than I thought," Lord Baelish remarked with a smirk upon seeing her, "My sweet daughter has taken to sharing her bed with dogs in her grief." The mutt perked up at the sight of the Elder Brother and sniffed the air, never taking it's eyes off the breakfast tray.

"I see you've met Trout," the Elder Brother chuckled, "she's one of the oldest of the Brothers on the Island…And the ugliest," he said fondly, rubbing the old dog on the muzzle. "Come, Trout, time for you to leave the lady alone," he told the dog, giving her a gentle nudge.

"Oh don't make her go!" Alayne protested, reaching for her new friend, "She's fine really, she reminds me of a pet I once had as a girl." She quickly realized her mistake when Petyr Baelish raised an eyebrow at her,

"I didn't know Motherhouses kept dogs around," he said lightly.

"Well not for hunting of course," Alayne quickly corrected, "but they made excellent mousers, and were much better protection than cats." Apparently satisfied with her story, Lord Baelish moved on to the matter at hand,

"Sweet daughter, I know you must still be terribly wrought with grief, but it's time for us to return to the Vale. The Silent Sisters have finished preparing Ser Hardyng for burial, and as his betrothed it is only fitting you see him safely returned to his home to be put to rest." Alayne's stomach dropped at the thought of returning to the Vale, but she forced a smile and hoped Lord Baelish attributed her lack of color to the thought of her betrothed's remains and not to returning to the Vale.

"It would be my honor, Father" she told him sweetly, and was rewarded by a chaste kiss on the cheek that lingered just a moment longer than necessary.

"The Elder Brother and I have been discussing travel arrangements, and as soon as the rain lets up, we shall take a boat to The Fingers to wait for the path to the Vale to clear for us again. You must be ready to leave as soon as the rain slows, my love, which could be tomorrow and it could be a week from now, but I need you to be ready at a moment's notice." He kissed her other cheek and the swept out the door, his dark burgundy cloak fluttering along behind him, reminding Alayne of spilling wine.

"I don't want to go with him," Alayne pouted softly to the Elder Brother once Lord Baelish was safely away. The Elder Brother nodded and passed her a cup of warm tea,

"I know, my lady, have faith," he said quietly and then thoughtfully gave Trout a rub on the head, "You have many friends here, never take for granted the loyalty of a dog." And with that, the Elder Brother left her to break her fast in silence.

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><p><strong>AN: We're back! I hate unfinished fics as much as anyone, so it would be hypocritical of me to just let this one linger. Thank you so much for your persistent reviews, without which I might've forgotten about this little work. This is not the only update I have in store, so don't fear. There is much more Sansa/Sandor interaction coming very (very!) soon.**


	11. Chapter 11

Sandor Clegane did not mind the rain. It softened the ground for his digging and kept him cool as he did his work, but what Sandor loved most of all about the rain was that it forced the others inside and kept the other occupants of the island from bothering while he worked.

He had taken an unholy amout of pleasure in digging a grave for the little knight heir, even thought about taking a piss in it when the Elder Brother informed him that the Silent Sisters would be helping Lord Baelish return Ser Harrold to the Vale for burial. It had been a great long time since he had killed a man, and he resented the pompous knight for dying quietly under the watchful care of Sansa Stark and not bloodied and sputtering in battle like a man.

His melee with Ser Harrold, however brief, had awoken a bloodlust in him that he had not felt in some time. He now carried the longsword he had earned on his belt, despite the glares of the Elder Brother, and he loved the feeling of resting his hands on the hilt of a sword again. He longed to draw the thing from it's scabbard and cut someone down with it, but he knew the Elder Brother would frown on finding him in the practice yard, roughing up the sparrows.

He took a break from shoveling dirt and rubbed his hand over the sword of his hilt, wondering how long it had been since he'd had a fuck, much less a good fuck. His thoughts quickly went to the little bird and wondered if it had been a long time for her as well, before he remembered the decree of her maidenhood and cursed himself for his perversion. He quickly resumed digging, harder and faster than before, feverishly pounding into the soft ground, hoping the familiar repetitions would banish the lustful images in his mind, but the little bird's kiss had stirred something in him that had long died.

A far away bark brought him out of his trance. He looked up to see one of the island's strays, a fox-like one the Elder Brother called Trout, running through the rain biting at the droplets, while the little bird and her bastard companion laughed, following behind and tossing the mutt bits of bread. He was certain he was far enough away that she would not notice him, but he quietly set down his shovel and slinked back towards the trees anyways, not in the mood for another confrontation. It had been weeks since his vow to take her away, and yet whatever plan the Elder Brother had in store was no closer to fruition than it had been when the young knight was alive.

The rain had soaked the girls' clothing, and as he watched the little bird laugh in the rain he was shocked how much she had changed-he could not imagine Sansa Stark laughing and getting her dress so wet and muddy and playing in the rain thoroughly soaked like a smallfolk child. He tried not to notice how the dress clung to her body, making it very clear to him she was no longer a child at all. Trout sprinted passed the women, through a wet slick of mud, sending rivlets of mud flying towards them. They shrieked with laughter as they tried to block the mud from soaking them, and Sandor couldn't help but think he had never seen her act so…free.

"There you are!" a sickeningly sweet voice called to the women, and Petyr Baelish appeared from behind the stables, "Are you trying to make yourself sick?!" he demanded when he reached the soaked women. Sandor was too far away to hear the little bird's response, but he watched her lower her eyes and curtsey, muttering her courtesies to Littlefinger. His interruption had clearly ended their playtime, and Sandor watched the man wrapped his arm around the little bird to lead her inside, and Sandor couldn't help but notice that Littlefinger's hand on her ribcage was much closer to the bottom of her breast than was appropriate for a doting "father." His hand instinctually went to the hilt of his sword again.

Perhaps the Silent Brothers were not murders, but he had taken no oath.


	12. Chapter 12

Lord Baelish returned Alayne to her rooms, clucking at her for being so foolish and leering at the way her dress clung to her cold breasts. The way he looked at her then made her feel naked and dirtier than she already was, so she politely asked her father to leave her and send a maid in with a bath for her. "At once, sweet daughter, but first we must get you out of that wet thing," he said, gesturing to her dress, and turned her to face away from him, deftly unlacing her gown and tugging it down off her shoulders.

Standing there in her drenched small clothes, she crossed her arms over her chest to protect herself from his roaming eyes. "I suppose will have to find you a new suitor," he said softly before drawing her into an embrace, "I know how you loved Ser Harrold, but I know you will learn to love the next as well," he whispered into her eye. The feel of his hard manhood pressed against her bare belly shocked her into silence, frozen and unable to move. Lord Baelish kept one hand at the small of her back, pressing her to him and reached up with the other to stroke her wet hair, "There, there, child. I will keep you warm," and began to nuzzle his face into her shoulder, while his hands started to explore her body.

She clenched her eyes shut and told herself that it was just the concerned touches of a father trying to warm up his daughter and that he would be done soon. She found herself counting the seconds in her head, when she felt his hand breech her smallclothes and began to rub her breast. She let out a surprised chirp, which he took for encouragement and reached for her woman's parts with his other hand.

"Father!" she cried, finally finding her voice. He looked at her dumbly for a moment, as if he was not seeing her but someone else. Then his face went dark, and he barely contained his scowl,

"Forgive me, Alayne, I had only hoped to bring you some comfort," he said darkly, "I will send a maid in with a bath at once." And with that he was gone, and Alayne was unsure if he was angry or humiliated or both.

She held her tears in until the bath was readied and the maid had left her be. Alone in her rooms once more, she settled into the warm water and let herself sob for the first time in a long time.

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><p>He had followed the little bird and her fatherly escort back to the small cabin she called her quarters. He had lingered outside in the shadows, fingering the hilt of his sword and trying not to imagine the possibilities of what was happening inside. He had not forgotten about the bruises he'd spotted on her neck before.<p>

A cry rang out from inside and just as he was about to barge through the door with his sword drawn, a hurried Littlefinger came storming out into the rain.

Sandor lingered a moment, indecisive about who to go after, the girl or the fleeing Baelish. With a sigh, he turned away from her door and slinked behind Littlefinger along the muddy path. He heard the man bark orders at some wench to bring a bath up for the little bird, before hurrying on into his own quarters.

He lingered outside of Petyr Baelish's door, fidgeting with his sword. Was he really going to do this? If he did, it would certainly mean the return of the Hound and the end of his peaceful life at the Quiet Isle. He was certain that the Elder Brother would banish him as soon as he learned of Sandor's impulsiveness, but he simply could not let the Baelish bastard continue to carry on, doing godknowswhat to his little bird.

Silently, he drew his sword and held it down to his side, while he pushed open the door to Petyr Baelish's chambers as quietly as he could and slinked inside. Even though it was a dreary day, the curtains were drawn as if to block out even the hint of sun, and the room was dimly lit with nearly a dozen candles and a fire burning high in the hearth.

In the dim it took him a moment to make out Littlefinger's form, lounging almost regally by the hearth and swirling a goblet of wine in his hand. If the mockingbird was surprised to see him, he did not let on, and merely nodded to his visitor, "Hello, Brother," he said cordially and gestured to the chair across from him. "I know it is not proper to have strongwine this early in the day," Littlefinger chuckled, "but I felt like a bit of indulgence today. Pray, put your sword away and have a glass with me?" Sandor was confused by the man's calm demeanor and lack of surprise at having a large Silent Brother slink into his room with a drawn sword.

Before he knew what he was doing, he had sheathed his blade and was seated across from Petyr Baelish, who was pouring him strongwine. He accepted the cup and waited, careful not to take a sip until he saw Littlefinger do the same, but rather than gingerly sip the strong drink, Littlefinger tilted his head back and poured the entire thing down his throat. Sandor watched as the man barely flinched at the strongwine's burn before pouring himself another large glass. With his second glass in hand, Littlefinger broke the silence,

"So who's payroll are you on these days, Sandor Clegane?" Sandor felt himself nearly choke in surprise, though he quickly chastised himself for being so dumb as to believe that someone as cunning as the mockingbird would not discover his identity. He did not know how to respond so he maintained his silence.

"Not going to tell me?" Littlefinger continued, "Tell me his price and I'll double it." He set his glass of strongwine down, only to pull a small ledger out of his pocket and begin perusing the pages, ready to write Sandor a note right then and there if necessary.

"I am on no one's payroll" Sandor finally growled at the man, finding his voice finally.

"Then who sent you here to kill me?" Littlefinger asked nonchalantly, as though he were not talking to a potential assassin but a friend during a cyvasse game, "That's why you're here after all isn't it?"

"No" Sandor rasped, his voice harsher than usual from disuse.

"So it's the girl then? Are you here to kill her too? Take her back to Cersei perhaps in exchange for a pardon and a bone or two?"

"No."

Baelish leaned forward in his chair, regarding the large man carefully, as if trying to study him.

"No? You must have some interest in the girl, considering you killed her betrothed and all." Lord Baelish took another sip of the strongwine, never breaking eye contact with Sandor the whole time. "I'll tell you what, Clegane," Baelish was done with questions, "I could use a man in my service like you." Sandor could tell the man's confidence was growing, "Brune has his uses and his loyalties I suppose, but I need a true warrior by my side, and you're a real brute aren't you? Of course there would be the issue of payment, and I assure you whatever price you name I can match it. Besides the company can't be beat…Maybe I'll even make you the Stark girl's sworn shield, let you pant after her all day and use your proven skills at cutting down any suitors that come to call."

For a moment Sandor imagined a life with Lord Baelish, serving as his sellsword and becoming a rich man, all while serving alongside her as her sworn shield. It was a better deal than he would get from whoever he decided to take her too, he was certain. He thought about the life she would face with him: hiding her identity and fending off unwanted advances, which was not unlike the life she had now with Baelish, except that by his side she would be running penniless to an unknown destination, through a warzone with a man who had once held a knife to her throat.

Sandor took another sip of the strongwine and regarded the mockingbird across from him-an evil man, a traitor and liar for certain, but a powerful ally that could prove helpful to the little bird if she ever wanted her Northern home back-certainly a more powerful ally than he would ever be. As her sworn shield he could protect her from further abuses at the mockingbird's hands…

And then Sandor was reminded of the last powerful ally Sansa Stark had: a golden haired Prince who promised to make her his Queen, only to make her his prisoner and beat her bloody. He had told himself he would try to protect her from that evil man as well, only to have failed her and lost her.

He took a long drink of the strongwine, and with the boldness of the harsh liquor still in his throat, he stood, drew his sword and plunged it swiftly through the chest of Petyr Baelish. Baelish's face contorted in shock, then fear, before fading into acceptance, his glass falling from his hands and shattering on the stone floor.

Sandor Clegane was done leaving Sansa Stark in the hands of evil men.


End file.
